Swedish Conspiracy

I’m not sure I like Volvos anymore. I got a flat today, which isn’t technically Volvo’s fault, but trying to change the tire in the middle of a crowded UNH parking lot with their factory-issued jack made me wonder a couple things about Swedish engineers: do they have a weird sense of humor, or do they just hate us?

The jack was standard issue so far as it was black and metal and tucked next to the spare tire. But it looked more like a post-modern sculpture of an old man kneeling and holding up his empty hands, like he’s begging forgiveness or offering me something and saying, “Here, take it, I’m all set.” I stared at it for several minutes before deciding which side was up and then guessed that the man’s golden tail was the hand crank.

My driver’s manual pointed out the two (and the ONLY two) spots on each side of the car where the jack fits: one under the back door, and one under the front door, and both are surprisingly close to the center of the car. I’m not a Swedish engineer, but even before I started cranking the old man’s tail, I knew that if you jack a car up halfway between the tires, you’re going to get a three-thousand pound teeter-totter. But what I didn’t figure out, until a few minutes later, is that when Volvos teeter, they don’t totter—they just come crashing down off the jack.

I’ll admit that it was my fault for letting this happen three times. The first time surprised me, and I did the squatting backwards jump with my hands in the air yelling, “I’m OK! I’m OK!”

No one walking by cared.

The second time I remained squatting and watched the rotor dig deep into the pavement.

The third time, I managed to stand up in time to threaten the car before it fell off the jack. “Come on,” I yelled. “We’ve been over this!”

A nice lady with gray hair picked up my jack and said, “Is this your jack?”

“I think so,” I said.

She turned it over in her hands a few times. “Really?”

She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later with a real jack from her GMC. I was then able to jack up the car the American way: under the axel.

I drove away feeling more leery than usual towards Sweden, but with a newfound respect for American engineering. And I totally dig cool gray-haired ladies willing to stop and help a sweaty fat guy yelling at his Volvo.